Heart Language
by Janissa11
Summary: Dean's world changes radically, and Sam struggles to keep up. Gen. WIP.
1. First Chakra: Earth

**Heart Language**

**By EB**

**©2006**

"When you help, you see life as weak; when you fix, you see life as broken. When you serve, you see life as whole."

(Rachel Naomi Remen)

**First Chakra: Earth**

When he wakes up, there's no light.

There had been, when he got conked over the head – bright June sunshine – but now it's dark as pitch, which means it's dark outside now, and he's been out a long-ass time. Still hot, very hot, but it is much later, how fucking long has he been unconscious? Six or seven hours?

And quiet, god almighty it's quiet. No birds, no insects, no sound of some critter in the underbrush. No wight, no nothing.

No Sam.

Dean sits up sharply and gasps, reaching up to touch his forehead. His fingers find a lump, no sticky blood, and in that instant he knows something's really wrong. Something's way, way wrong. He isn't bleeding, he didn't hit his head hard enough to do more than stun him for a few seconds, and it CAN'T be dark outside. It's hot because he can feel SUN on his face, his arms and shoulders, and that means --

His heart feels like it contracts and expands, several times very fast. Not pounding: like it's about to maybe explode or something, from sheer adrenaline. His mouth tastes like hot metal. He can't see a goddamn thing. It is black as pitch to his eyes, no matter how hard he blinks, strains, rubs them with fast impatient knuckles.

And it is so goddamn quiet.

"Hello?" he says, and hears nothing at all. Not his own voice. Not anything. Feels it, inside his throat, words shaped on his lips, but there is no sound at all. It is as if sound has simply ceased to exist.

"Jesus," he whispers, or supposes he does. Can't tell, can't fucking TELL if he's saying the words out loud, except the air in his lungs, his throat, the feel of words passing his vocal cords. "What's going on? Sammy?"

He holds his head stiffly, cocked to one side; it's uncomfortable and yet he can't stop, listening for the return of his missing hearing. Blinking over and over again, because if he does it long enough his eyes will start working again. Only they don't. They feel fine, his throat feels normal, everything is there but none of it WORKS.

He smells smoke, fire. Superstitious fear boils up in his gut like lava, and he scrambles to his feet and flings his arms wide, smacks his right hand against something hard and scratchy and much, much too close, and he has no idea if he's screaming or not.

* * *

He sees Dean go down in the middle of the chase. Lagging behind Sam's sprint, never was quite as fast, and then the wood wight sends Dean spinning, crumpling in that boneless way that tells Sam he's been knocked out. How badly, remains to be seen, but he's down for the count, and that means Sam's on his own. 

Sam tops the ridge, crashes down through heavy undergrowth, and stops. He grins through the blood in his mouth, and calls, "Over here!"

The wight snarls, obsidian fur absurdly beautiful in the hot June sunshine, and lifts its arm again, maybe a gesture, maybe a fuck-you-I-just-knocked-out-your-partner-and-nothing-you-can-do-about-it thing, lumbers into full view, and Sam fires.

Right between those pretty evil eyes. The wight goes down just like Dean, only in this case, Sam is pretty sure it's permanent. Glossy black fur is already smoldering, and he thinks about the silver eating the creature from the inside out, Jesus, how PAINFUL that must be. Then it's burning, jaws open in a dog-whistle inaudible scream, and Sam grimaces and thinks about Dean, and there is another scream. He hears this one just fine, and he's running without considering it, fast as his legs will take him.

It's Dean's voice, yes, but Sam has never heard this tone before. Heard him bellow with pain more than a few times, and scream once or twice, but this is new, this high, piercing shriek that just goes on and on. It makes Sam's insides feel loose and watery, hearing that level of terror. The wight is DEAD, they got the job done, but there must be something else, something worse, and all he has is the revolver, the knife in his boot-sheath, that's it that's all.

He tops the ridge and skids down the other side, barely missing a few scattered sycamores, eyes narrowed and searching for Dean. Here, soon, here's where he fell, and when he sees the brown of Dean's jacket he nearly pisses himself from sheer relief. Dean standing, flattened against another sycamore, clinging like a man on a storm-battered ship. Mouth open like the wood wight's had been, and making that unbearable noise.

"Dean!" Sam surges forward, frowning when the weird ululating scream doesn't stop. Dean isn't listening, and Sam barks his shin on a hidden tree stump, doesn't even cuss because it's all WRONG. Dean doesn't make sounds like this, Dean doesn't hold onto a tree for dear life and scream as if the world has come to an end and he's just now realizing it.

"Dean," Sam says breathlessly, hands out as he slows and comes to a wary halt a couple of feet away. "Man, come on, what is it? Jesus."

Dean's wide, stunned eyes arrive at him and keep right on going. Searching, his head held high and to the right, a posture of such acute searching that it makes Sam's gut quiver all over again. Dean draws a hitching breath and screams, "SAMMY!"

"I'm right here." His own voice sounds funny to him now, shocked and shaking. "Dean. Look at me, I'm right –"

Dean's head darts right and left, and Sam walks up, saying, "Man, HERE I AM," and puts his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean gives a hoarse wordless cry and his fist comes out, punch going low and to the left but only by a millimeter or two. There is no recognition on his face, only terror, incomprehension.

"Dean, don't –"

Then they're going down, Dean flailing madly in another totally out-of-character move, blows never really connecting, as if he's fighting in the dark, hoping for a lucky shot. It isn't dark, though, and Sam is scared enough now – what foe does Dean think he's facing? the wight is toast, doesn't he know that? – to take advantage of Dean's absolute panic and go for the dirty holds, flipping Dean onto his back and using his greater weight to simply bear him down. Panting, pinning Dean's wrists against the ground and leaning over him, staring directly into his face.

"Calm down," Sam says, wishing his voice would actually sound calm. "Dean, it's okay. I got it."

Dean isn't struggling as hard, but the panic hasn't left his face. He's trembling all over, breathing in tiny asthmatic sips, eyes flickering all over and never connecting, never focusing.

"Sam," Dean says, so hopeless Sam's chest hurts hearing it. "Sammy."

"Yeah. It's Sam. Who'd you think it was, dumbass?"

But there is nothing on Dean's face. It's as if Sam hasn't spoken at all, and Dean takes another strangled gulp of air and wrenches his left hand free, reaches out and touches Sam's face. His hand is smeared with dirt, bitten nails ragged against Sam's cheek while his fingers shiver and trace his features, fumble up to catch in his hair.

"Sam," Dean says loudly. His eyes are suddenly filled with tears. "Sammy, I can't see anything."

Sam draws back an inch, stares down at him. "Dean –"

"And I can't hear anything, nothing. Sammy, is that you?"

Dumbstruck, Sam nods slowly against Dean's palm, and Dean's other hand catches the collar of Sam's jacket and clings like he's a lifeline.

* * *

He can tell, now, that it's Sam. Sam's smell, Sam's hair, something else that isn't quite his skin or his lips or his sturdy body but a bigger thing that just says, Sam. 

The relief is staggering. Sammy's here, Dean is not alone, there is someone in the darkness he knows and trusts. It isn't just absence of light and sound, he is somewhere beyond those things, a place he's never been and doesn't want to be now, a world where the only input is smell and taste and touch. The sour flavor of his own spit, and the acrid stink of burning fur.

He can feel Sam's jaw moving, the fast beat of his heart in the vein beneath Dean's fingers. "I can't hear you," Dean says silently, draws a breath and says it again. I can't, there's nothing, there's just your face, your skin, what are you saying? I don't understand.

Sam's hand grips his fingers and places them over his lips. Moving, saying something, and Dean thinks it just might be "It's okay." Asks, and Sam's head nods, and Dean thinks he says, "It's not okay, it's not fucking okay."

Sam pulls at him, and Dean sits up, but it's like vertigo, he has no sense of where he is, upright or lying down. SAM is sitting, therefore Dean is sitting, too, and he fumbles to touch Sam's shoulders, feel where he is. "Am I sitting?" he asks, and Sam nods. There's body language here, if Dean can just feel where it is. Sam's nodding fast, more than once, over and over again, like he wants Dean to understand, and that works. Yes, I am sitting.

Yes and no. Sam's touching Dean's face, tilting his head back, and Dean swallows. "Do you see anything?" This time Sam's shoulders lift and fall once, limp, and that is a no. There is nothing, but Dean risks letting go for a second, pushes his knees hard against Sam's to keep that sense of where-I-am and explores his own face. He can't feel anything wrong with his eyes. They're wet, which means maybe he's been crying and at any other time that would bug the shit out of him, but right now he really FEELS like crying, so who cares. His eyes are okay. His ears. Still attached, they don't hurt, nothing hurts but the lump on his forehead, near his temple. Hit his head dozens of times in his life, had way more concussions than anyone should have, and maybe this is some kind of final straw. Maybe you knock the brain around one too many times and things like this happen. Things like waking up in a tiny shrunken world.

Sam's breath puffs the air. He's talking, and Dean shakes his head miserably, fights down the instant dizzy vertigo and searches for Sam's face again. Sam's cheeks are wet, too, and that's wrong, Sammy shouldn't be scared like this, certainly not because of anything Dean has done. "It's okay," Dean tries to say. "We'll figure this out."

Sam is shaking. And feeling it, Dean starts to shake, too.

* * *

Getting to the car is a flat-out nightmare. Dean can barely walk. Still holding his head at that weird angle, holding onto Sam like some kind of bewildered inexperienced guide dog. But even then Dean dips and bobs like he's had too much to drink, like a sailor taking his first steps on land after years at sea. One hand flung out as if he expects to run into a wall at any time, even though the field is wide-open, just grass and scrubby underbrush. 

"Did it say something to you?" Sam asks, and wants to scream because he keeps not thinking about the fact that Dean can't HEAR him. Can't see his lips moving, can't make out the concern and fear in his voice. Dean is blind and deaf, somehow, completely, and it doesn't even matter yet how, just the fact that the terror on Dean's face is impossible to bear.

Sam grips Dean's shoulders tightly, steadies him when Dean takes another wavering step forward. "It's okay," he says mindlessly. "You got it. Just keep going. Not too far."

"Sammy," Dean says in that too-loud harsh voice, and Sam thinks about people wearing headphones and trying to speak. Always too loud, because they couldn't hear themselves, didn't know to temper their tone. Dean's perfectly normal hazel eyes search without seeing, wide and shocked and so afraid.

Sam pulls Dean close enough their heads touch, Dean's cheek to Sam's chin. "It's okay," he repeats. "It's okay, Dean. I got you."

Dean trips and staggers against him before Sam thinks to warn him about the things he can't see. The stubby little bush that shouldn't have been an obstacle, but is. The ups and downs of the ground, holes and rocks and all the kinds of things Sam just avoids without thinking, that Dean can't perceive any longer.

They're both soaked in sweat by the time the low black form of the Impala comes into view, and Sam's kind of crying and Dean's breathing so fast it sounds like hyperventilation. His face is chalky-pale, and he looks like he's gonna puke.

Sam takes Dean's ice-cold hand and places it on the Impala's front fender. Dean hitches a sigh and says, "Oh," leaning forward against the car and patting it gently with both hands. SEEING it, Sam thinks grimly, the only way he can at the moment.

Dean works his way from hood to side panel, fingers flickering over the side mirror and up the curve of the roof, down to explore where exactly the door handle is. "Guess I should let you drive this time," he bellows, but it's impossible for Sam to do more than smile. Dean IS smiling, but his hands are shaking and when Sam doesn't do anything more, one of those hands seeks him, pats his chest and then up to his face. "Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam nods.

Inside the car is immeasurably better. Limited space, familiar to both of them but even more to Dean, who has practically lived in this car for so many years now. Looking over at him in the passenger seat, Sam doesn't see him not seeing, not hearing. He just looks like himself. A little bruised, nothing new there. Fidgeting like even blind and deaf he really doesn't like riding shotgun.

Then Dean turns his head to the left, says, "Sammy, you still there?" And all that illusion wafts away like smoke on a breeze, because touch is the only way to tell Dean anything at all. Sam takes Dean's hand and places it on his shoulder, leaning to the right a little so Dean can keep that contact.

When the engine starts, Dean's fingers tighten and he bellows, "Back to the motel?"

Sam reaches out and places a finger on Dean's open lips.

"What?"

Tapping, Dean, not so loud, you don't have to yell. And a moment later Dean says in a slightly lower voice, "Am I yelling?"

Sam smiles and nods, pats Dean's sweaty cheek before taking his hand back.

"Motel?" Dean asks at a little more tolerable volume.

Sam shakes his head, and thinks, Jesus, how will I tell him anything? We can't do yes-and-no questions forever. He grabs Dean's hand and pauses for a moment, then flattens Dean's palm and writes a slow, careful capital H.

Dean's unseeing eyes narrow. "What are you doing?"

An O, and an S, exaggerated and slow, and Dean says, "Hos. Hospital?"

Sam nods against Dean's hand.

"Wanna get me checked out."

Nod. Of course I do. Sam swallows new fear and flattens Dean's hand again. Traces an E and an R, squeezes Dean's fingers for emphasis.

"You said -- There's nothing wrong."

Nothing I can see, Dean. Sam touches the bruise on Dean's forehead, and he flinches back a tiny bit, but he's nodding. "Gotcha. Like, head injury or something."

Sam nods.

"What if that isn't it?" Dean says shakily. "What'll we do then?"

Sam doesn't even know which words to laboriously spell. He pauses, and Dean gives a little snort. "Yeah, me either."

* * *

The car feels good. The car feels safe. Outside the car, not so much, but inside he doesn't need his eyes or his ears to tell him where things are, what is what. It's like company in the emptiness, so reassuring. Sam is here, and they're in the car, and all of that is as it should be. Nothing bad will happen to him here. It's the closest he has ever had to hallowed ground, and now it is a crushing relief. 

Of course Sammy figures out a way to kinda-sorta communicate. This is Sam, this is his brilliant little brother. Would have taken ages for Dean to think, Oh, yeah, Helen Keller time, but Sam made the connection in a few minutes.

It's weird, interpreting what Sam's finger is saying. It tickles, makes his brain hurt like he's using a part that's been lying around popping bonbons the last couple of decades and got all fat and lazy, and now it's suddenly jostling around going, What the fuck, dude? Give a body some warning next time.

"Hospital." He feels Sam's quick nod, and part of that newly awoken set of brain cells whispers, That's a relieved nod, but the rest of him is appalled. Jesus, is he really HURT? Was he right, he popped something that shouldn't be popped, or creamed some little area of the medulla oblongwhatever because he had some kind of fucking STROKE or something?

Talking is trippy. He knows he's talking – he may have been shouting, if Sam's little tetchy reminder was true – but he can't HEAR it, has no sense of what he sounds like, just feels the rumble in his throat and chest, uses up air, makes words in the way he always has and hopes they come out sounding like English instead of gobbledygook. Sam understands, though. That's good, right?

"Head injury, maybe," Dean manages, and Sam nods, but when Dean asks if maybe it's something else, Sam doesn't have an answer. Stillness communicates, Dean thinks with the latest in this endless series of shocks. When people go motionless like that, it isn't good. Sam doesn't know, Sam hasn't got a goddamn clue. And if Sam doesn't know, what are Dean's chances?

If it bugs Sam that Dean keeps his hand practically wrapped around his face, he doesn't seem to show it. The idea of letting go is beyond preposterous at the moment. If he takes his hand back, Sam goes away. It's stupid, because Sam's still sitting next to him, operating the car, but the feeling of it persists: Touch is the only thing that tells Dean he's not alone.

"Guess you can play whatever crap music you want to now," Dean says weakly, tries to laugh. "Even find you some NPR or something, right? Deaf guy shuts his cakehole."

Sam's hand covers his own and grips painfully tightly. His jaw is moving, but there's no telling what he's saying.

Dean thinks maybe that's good, because he thinks Sam might be crying. And if he is, well, Dean is probably not far behind. Not far at all.

* * *


	2. Second Chakra: Water

**Heart Language**

**By EB**

**©2006**

**Second Chakra: Water**

Taking Dean to a hospital isn't as easy as just driving. It's finding, too. Sam isn't even vaguely familiar with Lewisfield, and even if it isn't a huge city, it isn't exactly like following the yellow-brick road. Not to mention Dean's steely grip on his shoulder, not unwelcome but a constant reminder: Dean's holding on because he's BLIND, and let's not forget DEAF, and what if this is permanent? Just what exactly will happen then?

And Dean is -- It's all weird, because Dean's making sounds Sam's almost positive he doesn't know he's making. A couple of shivery little sighs, and nearly every time Sam makes a left turn Dean grunts, like he's scared Sam will pull his arm away, eradicate that connection they have. It's a lonely sound, lonelier because Dean doesn't know he's doing it, can't hear his own voice, and Sam grits his teeth each time and prays he'll see a sign for an emergency department.

He does, finally, and maneuvers them into a long narrow parking lot and into a space, and Dean's shaky voice says, "Are we there yet?"

Sam nods against Dean's anxious fingers and turns off the engine. "I'll be right back," he says, uselessly, pats Dean's hand and places it in Dean's lap.

"Dude, don't leave me here," Dean snaps, voice spiraling up.

Sam makes it as short as he can. Sprinting around the parked car, opening Dean's door. Dean's face is pale and tight again, and he flinches when Sam grasps his shoulder. "Fuck," said too loud, but at least they're here. Maybe here, someone can figure out what's happened. Fix it. Make it right again. Sam is clinging to that hope with all the tenacity of Dean's fingers gripping his own. Someone help him. I don't know what to do.

They make a funny-looking pair walking inside. Dean still carries himself like a guy in the midst of a good solid earthquake, feeling ahead of himself with his feet and splaying his free hand to the side. Whacks his fingers against the sliding front door and jerks back like it stung him.

A nurse at the front desk gives them a fast once-over, and Sam blurts, "He hit his head."

"Any loss of consciousness?"

"Maybe five or ten minutes. I don't know for sure."

She's making notes on a chart already. "Any vomit –"

"He can't see or hear anything."

She gives him a puzzled look. "Nothing?"

"What is it?" Dean asks loudly. He touches the desk surface, glides his free hand over the sliding glass window. "Is this the ER?"

Sam nods, and gives the nurse a grim look. "Does he need, like, a CT scan or something?"

"Let me get a wheelchair."

* * *

He can tell it's a hospital by the smell. More than that, the feel of it, an inside-sense, the sense of milling people nearby, the flavor of tension and emotion in the too-cold air. It's like he's in a box, separate yet close, and there is so much going on he can't perceive. 

Sam takes his hand and places it on something cold and metallic. Not the car this time. It only takes a couple of fumbles to figure out it's a wheelchair.

"I didn't hurt my legs," Dean snaps, and feels Sam stroking his shoulder, urging him down. "What the fuck?"

And then there's another hand, cool and too small to be Sam's, and Dean jerks back with instant automatic fright. Who the fuck are you? Why are you touching me?

Sam spells N-U-R-S in Dean's palm, and he makes himself nod. "Yeah, okay."

All of it's wildly, incomprehensibly different now. He's been triaged dozens of times, gone through this so often he has the drill memorized, but nothing feels the same. Blood pressure, something stuck in his ear that scares the shit out of him, takes him ages to remember that's a thermometer. Sam's been separated from him, keeps patting Dean's leg but from too far away, and fear bubbles up and gets pushed down until he can't do it any longer.

Then Sam wiping the tears from Dean's face, gentle fingers and the brush of air while he speaks. "I know you're talking but I can't hear you," Dean gasps, and presses his forehead against Sam's shoulder, ignores the complaint from the goose-egg on his face and closes his useless eyes.

* * *

It's worse than Sam envisioned. It's a fucking nightmare. They have to be here, they have to do these things, but he wishes savagely he'd skipped it, just taken Dean back to the motel in Archer City and let him just – be. Except what if this is a brain thing? What else CAN it be? They're in the right place. He just hopes Dean doesn't completely come unglued before it's over. 

He's never considered what it would be like to lose his sight, or his hearing. Sure as hell never thought about losing both at the same time. Now he's trying so hard to anticipate everything, he's got a bitch of a headache, and he can tell Dean's not feeling any too great, either. He looks exhausted, freaked, terrified, and Sam stops trying to imagine what it would be like when the nurse comes into their little room, carrying some familiar equipment.

Jesus, they're going to stick Dean with needles, and on a GOOD day Dean hates needles. He's a big old wimp when it comes to shots of any kind, and IVs are about six hundred times worse.

The nurse looks uncertain when Sam tells her. "He's dehydrated," she says, and thinks while she chews her bottom lip. "And the doctor wants his CT with contrast dye. He'll need an IV line."

"I understand that," Sam says tightly. "But he doesn't, and I don't know how to tell him."

"Does he sign?"

Sam draws a long fast breath. "I thought you understood this. This – his deafness, blindness – it's NEW, okay? Like, he's been this way a couple of hours. No, he does not know sign language; neither do I. He hit his head, and when he woke up he was – like this. Okay? So we're starting from zero here."

The nurse nods slowly, and then backs away. "I'll see about calling an interpreter."

Sam sighs, and Dean says, "What? What's going on? Sammy?"

It is beyond frustrating, spelling letter by letter on Dean's hand. There's nothing else, and he knows it, but it is driving him quickly insane. C-T. Dean nods quickly and asks, "Am I there already?"

Sam shakes his head and spells, "I-V."

"No." Flat, ugly, too loud. "No IVs. No way, Sam."

D-R O-R-D-E-R.

"Fuck the doctor. You tell them no IVs, you got that? No fucking way."

"Mr. Callahan?"

Sam turns, grimacing, and faces the nurse again. She looks different now, determined, and his heart sinks.

"It'll only take a moment to place the line. Can you – tell him that?"

"He doesn't want it." And don't tell me you didn't hear him say he didn't, lady. The whole ER heard that.

"I'm sorry. It's standard procedure."

"There's nothing STANDARD about this! He just went blind and deaf! Can't you cut him some damn slack or something?"

There's a big guy standing behind her now. Big, as in uniformed-security time. "Jesus," Sam whispers. "I can hold him, okay? It needs to be me. He trusts me."

Dean's head is cocked again, he knows some shit is going down, and Sam takes his hand and traces, "S-O-R-R-Y."

"Oh, no. No, Sammy, you get me OUTTA here."

Sam holds his hand tighter, and Dean's head cocks to the side, as if he's listening. Can't hear, but he's listening for something.

* * *

It's bizarre, fighting in the silent dark. Deep, velvety, absolute dark, and Sam is nowhere to be found. Instead there are hands on him, strangers' hands, and his mind goes blank, blank as the darkness, and he fights without thinking. 

But there are so many of them, and he can't remember why they're trying to do things to him, can't remember what Sam spelled on his hand. Just knows he doesn't WANT to be touched, not by faceless nameless strangers, and he's losing.

And then he's lost, because something else is holding him down, holding his arms and legs against the hard mattress, and he screams when the needle goes in. It HURTS, and it's like all this dark quiet is filled up with pain, and fear, he doesn't want it, doesn't want any of it, he wants SAMMY.

His throat aches, everything's softening, warmth flooding through him, and he thinks it's Sam who touches his face, leans down and presses against him. It's got to be Sam, and Dean says his name silently before letting the flood sweep over him.

* * *

"Well, he does have some damage." The doctor has a kind face, sharp eyes behind glasses, and he shrugs. "Mild concussion. Must have taken a pretty good hit to the head, huh?" 

Sam nods slowly. "Guess so. That caused it?"

"I don't see how. Jostled things around a bit, sure, but complete blindness, deafness? If he'd had that type of damage, he wouldn't have walked in here under his own power."

"There's no other explanation. I mean, one minute he was normal, the next – he can't see me or hear a thing I say. It can't just happen, that's not –"

"Well, it can," the doctor says quietly. "Functional vision loss is uncommon, I agree, but not unheard-of."

"Functional vision." Sam watches him. "What, that's a nice way of saying 'hysterical blindness?'"

The doctor pulls a chair closer and sits, smiling. "I guess so. The loss is quite real, as long as it lasts."

Sam snorts. "Those people go deaf, too?"

"I admit, your brother would be the first instance I've heard of."

"No. No, you gotta -- Dean's not the type, okay? Someone else, maybe I'd buy it. Maybe. But Dean?" Sam shakes his head. "You don't know him. There's no way."

"You're right, I don't know your brother, not as you do. And we haven't ruled out a few outside possibilities. I'll get him admitted to the hospital, and he'll have a number of tests in the next day or two. MRI, MRA, and there'll be a retina specialist in to check his eyes, that sort of thing. See if there's any sort of organic damage we could have missed in the ER."

"And if there isn't?" Sam asks.

The doctor shrugs. "There are other avenues to explore. Why don't we just wait and see?"

"In a manner of speaking," Sam says hollowly.

"Sorry. Can I get you anything, do you need to make any calls?"

Sam shakes his head.

"We've ordered a bed. It shouldn't be long before he's moved to a regular room."

"Thanks," Sam whispers.

Inside the exam room, Dean is still asleep. Knocked flat with Ativan, no longer struggling. Sam flops down into the chair and sighs, and then reaches out to touch Dean's limp right hand.

* * *

There's no way to tell where he is, or when it is. He's awake, he thinks, aware, but there's no light to help him gauge the position of the sun, or the hour. No sounds that identify the location. 

Terror washes over him like acid. Where IS he? Is this still the ER? Have they gone back to the motel yet? Surely that would have woken him up, but whatever they juiced him up with, it was strong; he could have slept through it.

It's hard to breathe. This is unlike any fear he's ever felt: it's consuming, it's empty and formless and stifling. Nothing makes SENSE. Where is Sammy? He's good at explaining things so they make sense. He's always got answers. He's almost always right.

Someone touches his hand, and he thinks he may be making noise, but who can say? There's only this dark silence, not like nighttime, not like sleep. It's deeper than that, it's total, and is this a friend touching him? Or foe?

His fingers touch shaggy hair, and he calls, "Sammy?"

Nodding, a puff of air against his fingers.

"Where am I? What happened?"

Hospital, Sam's finger spells against Dean's palm.

Now he can feel crisp sheets around him, the grudging give of a hard hospital mattress. It stinks like a hospital, like alcohol and old food odors and grief. Is this how he'll start to identify where he is? By the smells of it? The feel of it? What else can he do? How trustworthy are those perceptions?

"I don't want to be here," he blurts. "Sammy, I don't want this."

Tests. Sam's finger is cool and tentative. His other hand grips Dean's reassuringly tight. Day or 2.

"Stay," Dean says. "Don't leave me, Sammy."

An age, while Sam carefully prints, Not leaving. No worry.

"Is it whacking my head? Did that do this?"

No. Probly not.

He sits up, pulling on Sam's hand for leverage. "What time is it?"

9:00. AM.

Christ, it's been hours and hours. His mouth is dry and sticky, remnants of a drug hangover. He's thirsty, and hungry, and it's worse because those feelings balloon in the darkness until they're all he can perceive. Everything else goes away.

Sam's hand squeezes and lets go.

"Don't go," Dean says. "Sammy." He turns his head right and left, instinct that's useless now, can't stop anyway. Where did you go? Why did you go? Is there someone else here?

Hand patting his shoulder. Big hand, Sam-hand. Then grabbing his own fingers and spelling, Water.

"Oh."

He fumbles a little getting the straw to his mouth, but then it's cool and sweet and he drinks until it's gone, and this time he doesn't really feel cut off when Sam vanishes again, because he comes back with a refill.

"Thanks," Dean says when the water's gone. "I was really dry."

Slow letters: Hungry?

"Roadkill's starting to sound tasty."

Sam pulls Dean's hand up to touch his face. Contorted, and it takes Dean a second to realize Sam is laughing. Dean smiles and says, "Just help me make sure I don't wind up wearing it, okay?"

Sam nods, and Dean can feel his smile under his fingertips. Sam's saying something, and Dean can't tell what that is but he thinks it's maybe something like, You got it, and for the first time in what feels like about three centuries Dean thinks maybe it'll be okay.

* * *


	3. Third Chakra: Fire

**Heart Language**

**By EB**

**©2006**

**Second Chakra: Water**

Dean is discharged from the hospital early on the third day. Watching him fumble his way into his shirt, Sam thinks they're not much better off now than when they arrived. No one has any answers, at least none that suit. Dean's doctors say his eyes are fine. His ears are fine. His brain is as close to fine as it ever has been.

There's nothing wrong with Dean. Except he is profoundly blind and deaf, and Sam wonders just how in the hell they're gonna make it now.

"Is this inside-out or anything?" Dean asks. It's said with a smirk, but there's an undercurrent there, uncertainty, anxiety, a whole lot of other emotions Dean would normally never allow to show. He can't temper his tone any longer, can't bluff his way through. He has no idea how much is bleeding through, and Sam hasn't tried to tell him yet.

Instead he pats Dean's shoulder a couple of times. They're developing a kind of half-ass code. Finger-spelling is fine if there's real information to be imparted, but much of the time all Dean really wants is reassurance. His clothes aren't on backwards, his hair is all right, he doesn't have sleep-boogers in his eyes or toilet paper stuck to his shoe. Reminders that he's going the right direction, that he won't bump into something or someone. Reminders that Sam's right there.

So the pats mean "fine." They also mean "forward," and a few other things they've mutually agreed upon. A squeeze – to Dean's hand, shoulder, wherever – means "stop," and also "no," and depending on the circumstances, "quiet," because Dean tends to trumpet things instead of saying them. Instead of getting softer, he's gotten louder over the past few days, and Sam is starting to wonder if Dean is kind of forgetting what it's like to hear.

Dean himself had said it last night. Blurting out, in the way he has begun to blurt such things, that he really missed music. "I mean, I can play this shit in my head, you know? But it's not the same. It's so quiet in here."

It hadn't lasted, that moment of revelation, but now Sam thinks about what that means. If Dean's letting these things actually show here and there, it has to be the tip of the iceberg. What's it really like? He has no concept of it, can't even begin to do more than haltingly imagine how Dean feels now.

"All righty." Dean's favorite nurse, Shonda, bustles in, and Sam smiles at her. The night staff hasn't been so great dealing with Dean's handicaps, but the day nurses are pretty damn good, and Shonda's the best of them. Perky, unfazed, and Dean no longer flinches when she touches him to inform him she's speaking to him.

Today she's carrying Dean's discharge papers, and doesn't fidget or glance at her watch while Sam gets Dean situated and positions his hand so that he can sign in the appropriate places. "Has the social worker been by?" Shonda asks.

Sam nods. "She told us about some classes and stuff. And she brought him that." He nods at the candy-striped cane leaning against the wall. Dean had so much trouble unfolding it that he now keeps it open, even though he hasn't got a clue how to actually use it yet. Just holding it, the woman had told them, communicated the fact that Dean was deaf and blind. Although she'd elided it – deafblind.

Sam had expected an outburst at that. It hasn't come yet. Maybe Dean's waiting until they're in their own space again. Who knows?

Three different nurses accompany them on the ride downstairs. It's nice, and Sam feels a hot curl of anxiety, wondering how Dean will do – how HE will do – once they're on their own. With people around, he can pretend they know what they're doing. Alone, he hasn't got a clue.

Shonda kisses Dean on the cheek, and grins when he points at his lips. "My husband would kill me," she says. But she goes on tiptoe again and presses her cheek to his so he can feel her smile, and Dean's is pleased.

* * *

Something happens to Sammy once they're in their motel room. Dean doesn't know what it is, but the air feels different, the touch of Sam's hand is way different.

"What's going on?" Dean asks.

Sam draws a question mark in Dean's palm, and Dean sighs.

"Look, I know this isn't what you signed on for. Okay? We just gotta – figure things out, that's all. Figure out who or what did this to me."

There is a really long pause. And then Sam obviously sighs, and starts to spell, U thnk its supernatural?

"Well, what else could it be? Somebody put a whammy on me. It's nothing physical, so that's gotta be it. Who'd we piss off?"

Sam's finger doesn't spell anything back, and Dean fumbles to touch his face. No smiles today. Sam's features feel tight, motionless.

"What? Tell me!"

It takes a while. That's one thing that Dean thinks, no matter how long he remains deaf and blind – and he sincerely hopes it isn't more than about ten more minutes, although he's starting to lose a little hope on that score – he'll never ever get used to how long it takes to communicate. He might never have realized just how slow it is, until the social worker, Carol, showed up. Her finger-spelling was light and fast, and confident in a way Sam's is not, and for a while Dean had felt as if he was almost – almost – having a real conversation.

And she'd mentioned signs, and the idea that there is an option out there that allows shorthand, no more laborious spelling-out, is kind of encouraging.

But right now, Sam is slow and deliberate, and Dean thinks again how very much touch communicates beyond words. Sam is careful because he wants to make sure – dead sure – Dean understands what he's saying. If Dean could see, he knows what expression Sam would be wearing right now. The little wrinkle in his brow, mouth tight with determination. He can see it, like a photograph.

"Its calld functional vision and hearing loss. Theres no physiologicl cause."

Dean sits very still, even after Sam stops tracing letters. "That's it? What, there's no cause? Bullshit. There's a cause. They just didn't find it, because they didn't know where to look." Dean smiles, puts his free hand over Sam's. He's getting the hang of talking without hearing. "We do, Sammy, don't you get it? Now we can get to work."

Long and slow: "U cant work now. R u kidding?"

"Well, I can't read the newspapers and shit, but I can BE there. Hell yeah."

"Ill do it."

"Obviously, but dude, I can help. I didn't lose brain cells along with my senses, you know?"

Sam takes so long this time to reply, it's pretty clear he feels badly. "Sry. Its complicatd."

"Duh. Come on, Sam."

And then fierce letters, drawn hard and fast, nearly as fast as Carol's: "What if we gt separatd? I cant help u then. No Dean. Let me do this."

"We won't get separated. Look, you have to let me be a part of this. It's my EYES, dude! MY ears!"

Sam doesn't spell anything at all. His hand loosens, then slips out of Dean's grasp entirely.

"What, that pisses you off? It's the truth, Sammy!" Dean tilts his head, trying to imagine where Sam is sitting exactly, trying to see him with his blind eyes.

But after a moment, he can't quite remember where Sam was sitting. He doesn't sense Sam any longer. Must still be in the room, didn't have the little wave of hot outside air with the door opening. Bathroom? Why doesn't he give a warning? Something?

"Sam, come on." Dean's mouth is suddenly dry. "I'm not – an INVALID. We'll be careful, okay? What?"

There's nothing. And all of a sudden he knows the room is empty except for himself. There is no one here. He is alone. No idea how, Sammy maybe fucking BEAMED out, but Sam is GONE.

* * *

It's instinct to be careful sitting down. Like Dean could still hear the creak of a chair. Sam sits slowly anyway, heart still thudding with anger and frustration.

So fucking STUPID. Not an invalid? What does Dean think he is, anyway? Superman? Christ, as if this weren't hard enough without Dean being so – Dean-ish.

It's anger that made him back away: If you won't look at it rationally, I will force the issue. And for a few minutes it feels weirdly GOOD. Dean is just sitting on the bed, talking and then shutting up, because he IS alone. Sam's way over here, there's no movement, no nothing to let Dean know he's around. It's painfully easy to isolate Dean. Just walk away. Make no vibrations, don't move the air – and there are no cues for Dean to interpret.

Then Dean's face crumples, and he stands up. Hands splayed in front of him, knee edging along the side of the bed for direction. He moves so slowly, like an old man, and it hurts Sam's heart to see that. Clashes with the righteous anger in his chest, mixes with frustration and a weird kind of satisfaction. I TOLD YOU SO. But you wouldn't listen. Now let's see how well you do. Mr. Self-Sufficiency, how will you handle this?

He hangs on to those feelings for a little while. Long enough for Dean to shuffle to the dresser, barely catch the lamp before it teeters over. To hear Dean's fast, scared breathing.

Then Dean opens his mouth, and all Sam can do – will let himself do – is listen.

"You can do this. You can fucking do this, you loser. Suck it up. He'll come back. Pissed him off, that's all."

Sam feels gooseflesh popping out on his arms. It's a funny, quiet voice, a mutter really, mumbled like a mantra.

"He'll be back. He won't leave me like this. It's all cool. It's doable." He uses the line of the dresser to guide himself left, until that's gone and there's an open space to the vanity beyond. He's going to run into the luggage rack. Sam can see it, tenses in his chair, and Dean's toe hits the rack and he stumbles, flails and staggers forward and catches himself on the sink. It's not an easy landing. Sam winces and stands, taking a couple of steps. Enough of this.

"Where did he go?" Dean asks clearly. "Why did he go? I'm sorry, Sammy, please."

Sam forgets to breathe, because this is more than Dean mumbling to himself. This is more than Dean's unconscious sounds: this is Dean's inner monologue, and it's not new. It's old, it's so very old, and Sam has to close his eyes for a second, wishes he'd go suddenly deaf, too, because hearing that inner voice so rough with fear and loss is like having his entire body rubbed raw with sandpaper, agony in every nerve. Dean clinging to the vanity with all his fears laid bare. It's wrong, it's – intimate – and Sam CAUSED this, caused so very much of it, and it can't continue. No more lessons. No.

Dean flinches so wildly when Sam touches him that he reels a little to the left, comes up hard against the wall. Right hand clawing the air, finding Sam's shirt and grasping, shaking like a leaf.

"I'm sorry," Sam groans, reaching up to clench his hands in Dean's shaking shoulders. "That was fucked up, I'm so sorry, Dean."

"You left me alone," Dean whispers. His staring eyes are dry, and so filled with shock, with fear and pain that Sam feels it like a knife sliding cold and sharp into his belly. "You left me."

His own hands are shaking so badly he has trouble disengaging Dean's grip, flattening his palm. Spelling, THIS IS WHY. OK?

"I don't understand," Dean says wildly. "What?"

Why u cant do this with me. Do u understand?

Dean freezes in place. Then a whispered, "Bastard."

Sam nods fast, yanks Dean's hand up to flatten against his cheek and nods more, fast.

"S-scared me."

"Truth. U r blind and def. U cant DO THIS."

Dean jerks away, misses the door jamb and takes a step into the bathroom before finding the wall with his hand. "That was fucking LOW, Sammy," he says, and there's no anger in that tone, just hurt, shock. "Asshole. You're an ASSHOLE."

Sam draws a deep breath and reaches out for Dean's wrist, clings when Dean yanks against his hold. "Truth hurts," Sam spells out viciously. "Deal."

Dean's bewildered blind eyes cross Sam's face, wander over his right shoulder. "Something Dad would do," he whispers.

It's Sam's turn to flinch.

* * *

It doesn't matter that right now he can see Sam had a point. Yeah, if they get separated, Dean is screwed. Never mind. The hurt's so sharp it's like something's come untethered behind his sternum, something he can't live without, reaching up and grasping his throat until he can barely swallow, and he can't figure out how to make it stay put again.

And what really sucks is that he should be pissed, pissed as hell, but all he can grab onto is fear, and sadness.

When Sam grabs his hand again he wants to pull away. Fucker.

"It was low. I admit it. Out there it will only b worse!" The dot on the exclamation point digs hard into Dean's palm.

Stop POUNDING on me, Dean thinks, and Sam's finger prints, ONLY WAY U WILL LISTEN!

"I CAN'T LISTEN!" Dean cries. "I can't HEAR YOU!"

Hell of it is, he can't get away from Sam, there's nowhere to go even if he could figure out how the hell to get there, and Sam's printing is fast and deft. LET ME. Pls, Dean.

Dean leans against the hard surface to his right, thinks it's either the bathroom door or the wall, but he can't really tell right now. He hates the dark, savagely, hates the silence even more. So alone, so goddamn ALONE. "You're such an asshole," he says.

And he hates how much of a relief it is when Sam drops his hand and grabs onto him instead. Hate this fucking demonstrative thing, don't NEED it, but right now Sam's strong body is the only thing keeping him sure he's alive, here, that he fucking EXISTS, and Dean leans his face awkwardly against Sam's shoulder, smells his shirt and his fucking too-long hair and closes his useless eyes.

* * *

What hurts is, Dean's right. It was a low-down underhanded thing to do. A DAD thing to do. The kind of shit he pulled when they were kids, flinging them out into metaphorical deep water and yelling at them to swim.

He left Dean dog-paddling, to prove a point, and he sees the shittiness of it even as he thinks, And how much worse would it be out there chasing whatever did this to him? How much worse would it be if I didn't do it now?

Dean is pulling away, face twisted with anger and hurt and fear, but even at arm's length he keeps his fingers twisted into Sam's shirt, keeps that connection. And seeing it hurts Sam's heart.

He puts Dean's hand on his face and says clearly, "I'm sorry."

"Prick. I don't think even Dad would have done that."

"Yes, he would," Sam whispers. Sighs, and takes Dean's reluctant hand again. Patiently spelling: Yes he would. 2 prove a pt. Sorry. I am sorry Dean.

"Screw sorry," Dean says. "If you go –"

He doesn't continue. Doesn't have to.

"U would b OK. But not going 2 happen."

Dean says nothing. Does nothing. Just stands there, hunched small against the bathroom wall, staring into space over Sam's shoulder.

"Talk 2 me. What?"

Dean shakes his head slowly, and Sam sighs. "OK. Need 2 do research. U tired?"

"No."

But it's a lie. Dean looks done in, like a man recovering from a critical surgery. He doesn't object when Sam steers him by the elbow out of the bathroom, over to the bed.

By the time Sam has the laptop booted up – for what research, he doesn't yet know, but it feels good to do SOMETHING – Dean is passed out on the bed, turned in Sam's direction, one hand outstretched toward him as if some sort of invisible thread connects them, even this far.

Grimly Sam wonders if maybe it does, and turns to open his browser.

* * *


End file.
